


A Study in Madness

by damozel



Category: Lady Audley's Secret - Mary Elizabeth Braddon, Mary Elizabeth Braddon, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crime, Crossover, M/M, Madness, Mystery, Queer Themes, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:45:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1302055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damozel/pseuds/damozel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The public has already been party to certain versions of the tale of Lady Lucy Audley. My younger readers may draw a blank at the reference, but any man who has earned the greys in his hair will be forgiven for shuddering at the mere mention of that infamous creature... What the public did not realise at the time was the involvement of the great Sherlock Holmes...</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Robert Audley is in despair after his dear friend vanishes into thin air during a trip to the Essex countryside. It seems that there is only one port of call left for the hapless barrister – a certain detective's rooms at 221b Baker Street. </p><p>There's danger ahead for Holmes and his Watson as they locks horns with the most infamous villainess of the 1860s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Perplexing Tale of Mr Robert Audley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blueinkedfrost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueinkedfrost/gifts).



A Note From The Author

The public has already been party to certain versions of the tale of Lady Lucy Audley. My younger readers may draw a blank at the reference, but any man who has earned the greys in his hair will be forgiven for shuddering at the mere mention of that infamous creature. As many may have suspected, certain details – including dates, names, and places – were obscured or altered in the initial accounts for reasons of propriety. What the public did not realise at the time was the involvement of the great Sherlock Holmes. As with so many of Holmes' most illustrious cases, I have toiled for many years with the notion of making the true story known as it was almost always his practice to receive no credit for his labours. But now – as I continue to reel from the great bereavement of my life – I recognise all too painfully that the reasons for censorship no longer exist. I hope that the following account will serve to reacquaint readers with one of the most astonishing stories of our times, and to cast further light upon the brilliance of the great man who has lately been lost to this world

Dr John H. Watson, December 1918

 

The sensational events to which I allude began on the most unpromising of November days. London was engulfed in some of the worst smog she has ever known, and by late afternoon I had given up any thoughts of venturing outside, choosing instead to lose myself in the latest novel by the delightfully inventive Mr Wilkie Collins. As I lay upon the couch in our old familiar rooms at Baker Street, I am ashamed to say that I made a conscious effort to hide the tome from the prying eyes of my dear friend and companion, for fear of some scathing remark. Holmes for his part had spent most of the day in repose – a rare state of affairs brought about by the combination of the dreadful weather, and the lack of a case to occupy his mind. He had subsequently awoken and resumed one of his interminable chemical experiments, disrupting my relaxation by producing a series of unpleasant odours, each more putrid than the last.

Perhaps sensing my annoyance, he broke from his work and came to perch beside me on the sofa. 'I almost think that you must be correct in supposing that dreadful stuff will one day rot your brain,' he pronounced with a triumphant smile. 'Yet as the author of such fare yourself, the criticism is hardly just,' he added with a mischievous twinkle.

'Holmes!' I cried in exasperation. 'This habit of yours is getting quite out of hand. If a man can expect privacy anywhere in this town, it is surely in the space between his own two ears!' It was true enough that – as I drank in the details of another sordid domestic crime – my mind had begun to wander; the medical man in me fretting over the potentially damaging effects of such lurid escapism. The accusation of hypocrisy also struck a chord. My accounts of Holmes' cases often surpassed the works of even our city's most fertile literary imaginations in their outlandishness. Yet it was hardly fair that I should be called upon to defend myself. I had not uttered a word out loud!

I was about to demand some explanation for Holmes' almost preternatural deduction, but the timely appearance of our loyal housekeeper caused me to hold my tongue. I had been far too preoccupied to notice any knock at the door, but a knock there must have been as she was accompanied by a stranger. In her usual quiet, efficient manner Mrs Hudson introduced us to one Mr Robert Audley. I was immediately struck by our guest's open, pleasant features as he made a shallow bow. Despite his obvious youth, his face lacked the keenness and intensity that is common in men of his age. Yet this lack was in no way disconcerting. I imagined him to be a person who took life at his own unhurried pace, and indeed this quirk of temperament seemed to be reflected in his very appearance. He was not a man of fashion, and with his tweed jacket, chintz waistcoat, and double-soled boots he looked more the country squire of a previous generation than a modern day man about town. It did not take a master of deduction to guess this stranger's purpose in calling on us in such inclement conditions. He must be a client, urgently in want of the particular services that my friend had to offer.

'My name is Robert Audley,' he began congenially, repeating what Mrs Hudson had just told us. 'It is a pleasure to meet gentlemen of such repute, albeit in the very worst of circumstances. It was not an easy decision to come to you, but after weeks of deliberation I have reached the conclusion that it is the only course left available to me. Your assistance may offer the last chance of my accomplishing the one fixed purpose that I have left on this earth; the only fixed purpose that I have ever known. But pray do not think me selfish or imposing. It is not for my own ends that I come, but rather for the sake of a good man – the one true friend of my life.'

'Do take a seat my good fellow,' I declared, gesturing towards my favourite armchair, which was tucked snugly beside the fireplace. It was clear from Audley's words that his placid manner belied his deep distress.

'And perhaps you would care for a pinch of strong tobacco?' inquired Holmes, rummaging in the toe of his old Persian slipper. 'I have a little something from Brazil that I fancy will be to your liking.'

'You are very kind,' replied Audley, tapping out his briar wood pipe with a surprised smile. 'I can think of nothing better.'

I thought, perhaps cruelly, that Audley looked infinitely more at home now that he had a lighted pipe in hand, and was no longer obliged to hold himself in a vertical position. He sat back in the comfortable chair and slowly drank in the contents of our odd little parlour, drawing sharply upon his pipe at intervals. The three of us passed several minutes in contented silence – a state of affairs that is ordinarily only possible with gentlemen who are more intimately acquainted. Such was Audley's gentle, unobtrusive presence, that there was no awkwardness. He and Holmes puffed away, while I lost myself in imagining the various routes that could have led this queer specimen to our door. My curiosity was to be frustrated a little while longer. A full ten minutes elapsed before Audley set down his pipe, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

'I suppose that I should begin, as my tale may take some time. I am a barrister by trade, and therefore know a little about the presentation of evidence, though it is true that I have never yet had occasion to accept a brief. When my French novels fail me I often turn to the writings of my fellow countrymen, so I am well enough acquainted with Dr Watson's published tales to understand the form.'

'Pray continue,' said Holmes, leaning forwards and steepling his hands beneath his chin. 'We are all ears.'

'Some months ago I ran into an old school friend of mine, a Mr George Talboys. His circumstances were quite extraordinary. He had married since I saw him last, and was father to a small boy. But he had left home owing to financial troubles, and gone to join the Australian gold rush. When I saw him first he was the picture of happiness. He had lately returned to these shores with his fortune made. Now all that was left for him to do was visit a coffee shop in town in order to obtain news of the beloved wife he had been obliged to leave behind. I was thrilled at the prospect of sharing in an old friend's good fortune, and, as there was a lull in my work at the time, I agreed to accompany him on his pleasant errand.

'It was then that tragedy first struck. Rather than finding news of his beloved, Talboys was confronted with a notice in the newspaper announcing her recent death. To cut a long story short, we journeyed to Ventnor – the place of her demise – and saw that all was in order. Dear George broke his heart weeping over the gravestone of his Helen, and was deeply saddened by the account given by the servant who had nursed her until the end. He did receive a small token – a lock of his wife's lovely fair hair, which the thoughtful woman had happened to take from the body. We also paid a visit to the dead girl's father, who is to this day in charge of my dear friend's son, little Georgey. From there we returned to London and settled in my chambers at the Temple. But from this time on my friend entered into a steep decline. It was as a last attempt to rouse him from his depression that I arranged a sojourn to the Essex countryside. My uncle – Sir Michael Audley – resides at our family's ancestral home, Audley Court, and I have always been a welcome guest there.

'Now you should know that my uncle – as good a man as ever breathed – has been the subject of some local gossip of late. He has taken a wife who is very much younger than himself, a Miss Lucy Graham as was. She is famed as a local beauty, and also renowned for her sweetness of temper and generous acts of charity. It is perhaps untoward of me to say so, but all of the porcelain skin and blonde ringlets in the world would not win her into my favour, and nor would a thousand bread baskets delivered to the poor. It quickly became apparent that my visit to Audley was to be very different from the relaxing holidays of times past. Lady Audley could not suffer guests in her home, and so myself and George took rooms in a local hostelry, the Sun Inn. Try as we might to gain an audience with my husband and his new bride, it seemed that Lady Audley was ready with a convenient excuse at every turn.

'Frustrated as I was to be denied my uncle's excellent company, I could not forget that my primary object was to lighten the heart of my dear friend. One way that I might accomplish this was to give him a tour of the Court itself, one of the most beautiful houses in all of England. My uncle and his wife had been called away to town on some errand – a fabrication I now suspect, concocted by Lady Audley in order to avoid our company. But I was determined that this would not stop me. I ingratiated myself with a servant, and was finally able to show off the splendours of Audley Court to my miserable companion. The servant told us that a portrait of Lady Audley was currently under way, and I determined to see it. I was still yet to clap eyes on that young woman's much fêted beauty! The painting was stored in Lady Audley's rooms, which she had locked upon her departure, but my curiosity had taken hold by this point. It was perhaps not the gentlemanly thing to do, my good fellows, but by means of a secret passage I gained entrance to My Lady's chambers, taking George with me. The portrait itself turned out to be a rather uncanny production of the Pre-Raphaelite school, although the superficial beauty of its subject could not be doubted.

'It was then that things took a rather more perplexing turn. We left the house shortly afterwards, but George seemed very much shaken by the whole affair.' Now Audley turned his whole attention to Holmes, and I saw a new kind of fire in his eyes. 'He had seen something in that portrait, Mr Holmes. Something that I fear may have fatally altered the course of events.'

The atmosphere was charged as Holmes and Audley simultaneously drew on their pipes, gazing intently at one another as they did so. I could tell from years of experience that the cogs of Holmes' brilliant mind were now whirring rapidly.

'A man of your powers might be able to guess at what happened next,' Audley continued, his eyes still locked on Holmes. 'Having been thwarted in our attempts to socialise with the family at the Court, I suggested that we plan a fishing expedition for the following day. The next morning we headed to a local stream and, as I slept in the sunshine, I have every reason to believe that my friend made the short walk over to Audley Court. From that day to this I have never again set eyes on Mr George Talboys.'

'You made enquiries at the local railway station, I suppose?' asked Holmes.

'Yes. There was no witness who could tell me anything conclusive.'

'And you have undertaken some researches into the former life of our Miss Lucy Graham?'

'I can supply you with the limited information I have. She was employed as an instructress at a school in Brompton. The family in Audley took her on the back of a recommendation from a Mrs Vincent, the proprietor of that establishment, but the girl had nothing else by way of credentials.'

It was now that I began to think that I had entirely misjudged Mr Robert Audley. The docile man who had entered our rooms had given way to a figure who was all passion and determination. And Holmes looked as lively and engaged as I had ever seen him. In fact the two men seemed to be of one mind to such an extent that I suddenly felt that it was I who was the slow, bungling idiot of the party.

At the conclusion of this remarkable narrative, Holmes stood and strode over to his bureau. He took out his writing things, and poured some ink. As myself and Audley looked on in amazement, he sat and composed a brief letter.

'Mr Audley, you were right to come to me,' he proclaimed when he had finished sealing the envelope. 'And you are right to assume that there is a dangerous person at work here.' I noticed that Audley flinched a little at the inference. He was not yet accustomed to my friend's constant deductions. 'You have done admirably by your friend – quite admirably – but it is safest for all involved if this matter were put in the hands of strangers. Here is the course of action I propose. Myself and the good Dr Watson will attend to things at Audley Court, and ensure that all is resolved satisfactorily. If you have not heard from me before that time, I ask you to open this envelope on the morning of the day after tomorrow, and to follow the instructions therein to the letter. There is perhaps not much chance of a happy outcome,' he added portentously, 'but justice might at least be done.'

After securing Audley's firm promise, my friend ushered him towards the door. 'Come Watson,' he announced, as our new acquaintance departed. 'We have some packing to do.'


	2. Journey to Audley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a crumpled and dishevelled pair of gentlemen that departed from the Baker Street rooms the following morning. Perhaps as a consequence of Audley's rousing and, to my mind, baffling tale, I had slept rather badly. And Holmes looked uncharacteristically ruffled.

It was a crumpled and dishevelled pair of gentlemen that departed from the Baker Street rooms the following morning. Perhaps as a consequence of Audley's rousing and, to my mind, baffling tale, I had slept rather badly. And Holmes looked uncharacteristically ruffled. His hat sat at a cocked angle and, as he pulled his overcoat on, I observed that his shirt-tails were flapping loosely. My friend was not a vain man, but he usually performed a careful enough toilette, leading me to speculate that Audley's narrative had effected him more than appearances suggested the previous day. He was also encumbered with a large carpet bag, the contents of which I did not care to enquire about at that early hour. Knowing the man as I did, and having implicit faith in his judgement and methods, I trusted that all was being done for the good. 

Holmes, with that uncanny foresight of his, had a cab waiting. But our destination was not the one I had anticipated. Rather than head immediately to the village of Audley, we were first to pay a call at Mrs Vincent's school for young ladies at Brompton – the place where the late Miss Graham had been employed before her move to Audley, and the sudden, great elevation in her station in life that had followed. 

The school, when the cab-driver was eventually able to find it, was rather smaller than I had expected. The grey, Georgian house might have worn a pleasanter aspect in high summer, but in the bleak November morning had something of the air of a dilapidated infirmary about it. One could easily imagine a man in the last stages of influenza being wheeled about the sparse driveway, longing for better things before departing this mortal coil. Even the ivy that adorned the walls exuded the impression of tawdriness and ill health; brown, curled leaves clung to the stonework with the limpest of grips. 

My initial impressions were confirmed as we were shown inside. A plainly clad housemaid led us to a shabby sitting room at the back of the house, which she rather grandly referred to as the schoolmistress' parlour. I observed as we entered that the architect had appointed the room in the worst manner possible, so that it attracted only the minimum of natural light. Various sticks of wooden furniture were dotted around the room, all of which looked worn to the bone. A sense of tawdriness was further suggested by the exposed floorboards, which were adorned by a threadbare scrap of Turkey carpet. The most striking feature of the décor was an oversized piano that took up a good third of the space. I confess that I could not marry this fact with the grim, poky atmosphere of the whole – surely this was not a place where music and merriment were often made? 

Odd furnishings aside, most intriguing of all to me was the seated figure who occupied the only decent looking sofa. This thin-faced, tight-lipped woman was fifty if she was a day. She rose as we entered and, rather to my surprise, offered a firm handshake first to Holmes, then to myself. 'I am Mrs Vincent,' she declared, leaving the social niceties to our imagination. Despite her apparently modest means, the fabric of her dark, high-collared dress was of the best quality, and the chain that hung about her neck glittered with the unmistakable lustre of real gold. She slowly perused our faces. Mrs Vincent possessed the hardened look that is unique to women who have made their living in the marketplace; the sort of character that grows tougher rather than softer with age. I could not imagine that the parents of her young charges ever felt inclined to quibble with her bill, and indeed as I stood before her I felt myself regress to the role of penitent schoolboy. For a moment the image of the Brompton headmistress merged with that of the dark, threatening figure who had ruled over Blackheath Boys' School some twenty years previously. It was a decided relief when Mrs Vincent broke the spell by gesturing for us to sit down.

'And what can I do for you gentleman?' she asked with a crooked half-smile, that was no smile at all.

'Our inquiry is a very simple one,' replied Holmes, every bit as cool as our hostess. 'My name is Sherlock Holmes, and if you are at all acquainted with the popular press it will not surprise you to learn that this gentleman here is Dr Watson. Nor will you be shocked to discover that we are here to do a little investigating. In particular I would like to ask about a former employee of yours – a Miss Lucy Graham.'

'Ah, but there's very little to tell you there,' she replied, settling back into her seat. Her cunning expression put me in mind of the tricksters who haunt the stalls of Petticoat Lane. 'Lucy was only with me a few months, and I 'ad very little trouble out of 'er – not like some of them fast and loose girls I've 'ad to put up with in the past.' The cockney undercurrent to her voice came through strongly now, and it was alarming to think that this creature was the keeper of our fine, noble language, passing on her low habits to the next generation of girls.

'If there was no problem, why did she leave?' asked Holmes evenly, clearly more focussed on the task at hand than I was.

'She got some position down Essex way is all I know, and I was 'appy to recommend her,' Mrs Vincent retorted indignantly. 'Nothing wrong with 'elping a nice young girl on 'er way in life now is there, Mr 'olmes? In fact I'm given to believe than she married very well – pretty little thing that she was an all,' she added with a vacant smile.

'Quite so. And perhaps she 'elps you out a little too?' With this Holmes let his eyes run ever-so-briefly over Mrs Vincent's expensive necklace.

'Certainly not – she's nothing to me now! I – I – '

It seemed as though she was about to launch into a long and self righteous speech in her own defence, the kind of speech that, in my experience, women of her age and class are most proficient at.

'I'm sorry if I've offended you, Mrs Vincent,' interrupted Holmes, looking not the slightest bit contrite. 'There is but one further question. Do you have a photograph of Miss Graham?'

At that moment the door swung open, and a small, wintry looking woman appeared. In her mousy brown apparel she looked every inch the ageing spinster. 

'Miss Tonks,' said Mrs Vincent icily, raising her eyebrows in disapproval. I could tell from her expression that she had been about to answer Holmes' question in the negative. 

'I'm sorry to disturb you ma'am, sirs,' Miss Tonks declared, looking round. Her apology was even more disingenuous than my friends' had been. 'Only I couldn't help but overhear your conversation as I was looking for something in the corridor just a moment ago. What's more, I'm sure I have the solution to your little pickle.' She smiled smugly, apparently delighted with this sudden bit of power. 'Miss Graham is included in the photographic portrait that was taken of the whole school last term. That one was usually proud as a peacock, mind. Always preening herself and twirling those blonde curls. But as it turns out she was quite, quite camera shy, and very reluctant to participate. In the end the photographer squeezed her in at the back.' All this was said with such spite that it turned me cold.

'And where is the photographic portrait now?' asked Holmes. 

'Why there's a copy hanging in the dining room. Same place we always put them,' she explained, grinning from ear to ear. 

The picture was small and poorly focussed, and, as Miss Tonks had described, the late Miss Graham was stood at the very back, partially obscured by two of her pupils. As on so many occasions before I could not see the significance of the supposed clue, but it seemed to satisfy Holmes. As we made a hasty departure, and returned to our cab, I could tell from the slight spring in his step that he was pleased. The twinkle in his eye might have been invisible to a casual stranger, but it was never lost on me. He was thoughtful and quiet for the duration of our long journey, speaking only when he asked the driver to pull up so that he might dispatch a telegraphic message. 

It took well over an hour for us to arrive in the sleepy Essex village of Audley. As we approached the Sun Inn – the place where we would spend the night – I was pleased to note that it seemed to be a neat and cosy establishment. The building was made of local red brick, and somebody had planted rose bushes next to the entrance. Owing to a shortness of space we were to share quarters, but the two narrow beds looked comfortable enough. The fresh country air seemed to have done Holmes a power of good, and he was suddenly boyish and light. 'Come Watson,' he declared, bouncing up the stairs behind me as I continued to inspect our little room. 'There is nothing to be done at the Court today, but the landlord has agreed to lend us some of his fishing tackle. Let us make the most of the light while it lasts.' 

I was not particularly keen to partake of an afternoon's fishing in such cold conditions, but was happy enough to watch. As I sprawled across the grass, bundled up in my woollens, the early winter sun bounced off the surface of the river, scattering its rays upon my friend's hunched shoulders, and upon my own chilly bones. The sunshine made me smile to myself, but in truth Holmes' happiness alone would have been enough to warm me. He was remarkably proficient with a fishing rod, casting out a perfect line on his first attempt. Just as he had so often ensnared the slipperiest members of London's criminal classes, he easily attracted a fish to his bait, watching it dangle on his hook for a moment before tossing the poor creature back into the water. Yet it troubled me to observe that, even in these most relaxing of circumstances, his frame bore the traces of tension. As though he were bearing some unmentionable burden that could never quite be shaken off. 

As I sat and pondered this elegant, remarkable man, my mind turned yet again to Robert Audley's strange tale. I wondered if he and George Talboys had visited this very spot on that fateful day just a few short weeks ago, basking in the glow of one another's quiet companionship as we did now. Audley at least had never suspected the great catastrophe that lay just around the corner, and that thought was almost too much to bear. To love a man so dearly yet know that he has slipped beyond your reach. Most likely forever. I was filled with an indescribable sadness.


	3. The Face of Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I awoke the next morning to find a strange man peering over my bed. As my eyes slowly began to focus I felt that I must be dreaming, or hallucinating.

I awoke the next morning to find a strange man peering over my bed. As my eyes slowly began to focus I felt that I must be dreaming, or hallucinating. We had taken a hearty dinner the previous evening, and rich foods have a habit of upsetting my constitution. The figure who appeared before me resembled one of the dandyish types who so often people the pages of _Punch_ , much to the amusement of some of my low-witted acquaintances. His hair reached down almost to his chin, and was curled in a somewhat womanly fashion. The man's waistcoat was an alarming shade of emerald, as was his flowing tie. His sparkling shoes were made of the finest patent leather, and were tapered to a point that was most effeminate. So outlandish was his appearance that I found myself smiling, despite my terror. Fortunately a certain arch of the stranger's eyebrow alerted me to the truth of the matter before I reached for my trusty service revolver. It was only Holmes, trying out one of his more elaborate disguises.

'Out of your bed and come, Watson,' he bade me laughing. We have a long days' work before us, and you are most unsuitably dressed for the occasion. The contents of his carpet bag lay scattered across the floor and I had occasion to marvel, for the umpteenth time in my life, at how a man with such an impeccably ordered mind could tolerate such chaos. He picked up an elaborately patterned cravat and handkerchief and threw them in my direction. 'You may not be such a natural at the bohemian life as I,' he said, still chuckling. 'But we must brighten you up as best we can.'

I guessed, of course, that Holmes' sudden change of attire was connected to the troubling business at Audley Court, and I was bursting with questions. Yet all flew from my mind as we approached the great house by foot a short while later. My first sighting of the Court rendered me speechless. Its ancient columns and arches rose out of the ground with mighty elegance, an immutable tribute to an earlier, more majestic age. The pale stonework was at once a part of nature, and something entirely separate; a testament to the loving hand of Man, and his unending labour towards beauty and perfection. Every time one looked up some new, splendid detail would reveal itself; a cornice here, a gargoyle there. Even the dry winter air could not dispel my urge to stand and gawp.

Holmes, not to be distracted from his purpose so easily, marched towards the entrance-way, and rung the bell-chord sharply. A full five minutes elapsed before his call was answered, and the door swung back to reveal a small female servant. She was a fair, pale-faced girl of about five and twenty who had a wrung-out look about her. She eyed the pair of us suspiciously.

'Mr Hamilton Asquith Trevelyan for Sir Michael Audley,' said Holmes, adopting an affected, high-pitched voice. He briefly met my eye with a look that I had seen many times before. It was one that asked me to go along with whatever was said, regardless of the direction in which it might lead. 

'The master's not at home today,' replied the girl lazily. 'Been called to some business in town so he has, along with milady,' she added, as though this brought an end to the matter. Despite her years, the girl reminded me more of a sulky child than a housemaid at one of the finest houses in all England. 

'That is most unfortunate,' Holmes responded, carefully placing his elegantly shod foot in front of the door before the maid could shut it in his face. 'I can assure you that we were expected. Myself and Mr Taylor here are from the Carter Galley in London, and we are planning an exhibition of emerging artists in the Pre-Raphaelite School. I have expressed an interest in the recent portrait of the Lady of the house, I am sure that you are familiar with it. And Sir Michael has kindly agreed that we may see the picture with a view to our including it in the show.' Here Holmes paused and produced an elegant cough, patting daintily at his mouth with his handkerchief. He then withdrew a pocket-watch from his breast and made a great show of studying its face. 'I'm afraid to say that we're rather pushed for time. We must be heading back to town shortly.' 

The housemaid was unmoved by his plea. 'It's the first I hear of it,' she replied, still looking at us askance.

'Perhaps I have the letter from Sir Michael somewhere here. Now let me see.' Holmes began to rummage through his pockets. He removed a small package that he pressed into the girl's hand. My friend always had a nose for those who could be easily bought, and it was keener than that of any bloodhound.

'You must be quick as I shall have to unlock milady's rooms,' said the housemaid with a polite nod and a sly smile. She gestured that we should follow her.

Entering the inner rooms of the Court was like voyaging into a dark, secret womb that had held the secrets of the English gentry since time immemorial. The scarlet walls and heavy tapestries seemed to stretch on for acres as we advanced towards the heart of the house. But eventually we reached the small inner chamber where the painting was stored. It was here that the maid left us with the caution that we only take ten minutes. Holmes waited until she had fully departed before gently easing the door open. 

In front of me was the most disturbing portrait of a woman that I have encountered before or since. The ghostly girl that I had seen in the blurred picture at Mrs Vincent's school now stood before me in stark relief. Lady Audley's costume bore the usual trappings of wealth and splendour, but it was her face to which the viewer was inevitably drawn. The cheekbones were high and well-formed, and the aspiring Pre-Raphaelite had skilfully captured the creamy, rose-dappled complexion of the quintessential English beauty. Her mouth too gave the superficial impression of beauty, its curves forming a perfect cupid's bow. But the artist's minute brushwork betrayed, perhaps unwittingly, a hard edge of cruelty and malice amidst the fine strokes. The subject's almond-shaped eyes should also have been magnificent. Her lashes were long, fair and perfectly curled, and she gazed heavenwards as if in supplication. Then the sheer blackness of her pupils – the lack of humanity contained within those bottomless pools – caused a shudder to run down my body until it jolted my very soul.

We stood in silence for some minutes, each man as shaken as the other. Eventually I was able to recover myself, to form rational thoughts and reasonable questions.

'But surely this is all you expected to see, Holmes?' I asked, attempting to reason out my feelings logically, as my friend had encouraged me to do on so many occasions. 'We know that the Miss Lucy Graham who taught at the Brompton school went on to become the mistress of Audley Court. I own that it is a peculiarly disturbing painting, but there is no crime in that.' 

'Perhaps you are correct, good Watson,' murmured Holmes, still apparently enraptured by the portrait. 'Then there are many strange things afoot here,' he continued, looking me square in the eye for the first time in days. I felt the same rush of relief that always flooded over me when I realised that he was ready to tell all about a case. He took me by the arm and guided me to a chair in the corner. We were both seated before Holmes continued the conversation. 

'It is quite true that our visit to Brompton did not reveal all I had hoped about Miss Graham's past,' he began. 'I quickly realised that Mrs Vincent was not a woman to be trifled with, and in any case she had been too well paid to be of much assistance. Luckily Miss Tonks was at hand to supply us with a little more information. One must never underestimate the power of a woman's jealousy, Watson,' he added with a wry smile.

'You are talking about the photographic portrait that she pointed out to us?'

'I am. Did nothing strike you as odd about the picture, and the circumstances of our viewing it?' Holmes asked. At moments like these I felt, with some embarrassment, that our relationship was closer to that of a schoolmaster and his pupil than two gentlemen friends. Then he would always retain a kindly twinkle in his eyes whilst he delivered his 'lessons', and this warmed my heart. 

'I suppose so,' I answered slowly. 'Mrs Vincent was keen to deny that any such image existed, and when we eventually saw the thing Lucy Graham seems to have gone out of the way to hide herself behind her pupils.'

'Exactly. And is it not surprising that such an obviously vain and showy woman has done so much hiding?' With this Holmes looked up at the portrait. 'Even this magnificent tribute to her beauty is hidden well away from prying eyes. A portrait that, if you recall, drove George Talboys to distraction the day before he disappeared. Of course the people Lady Audley was most keen to avoid were Robert Audley and Talboys himself, going to elaborate lengths to keep them from the Court – a place where Robert had always been most heartily welcomed in the past. It must have been an exceptional set of circumstances that could drive a bride to behave so coldly towards her new husband's close kin, do you not think? A woman who is, incidentally, of the same age and colouring as Talboys' lately departed wife.' 

Again there was a heavy silence in the air, but the penny dropped at long last. 'You mean to say that Mrs Helen Talboys and Lady Lucy Audley are one and the same person?' I cried in amazement. 

'It is the conclusion that Robert Audley eventually came to, and it was my belief from the outset. But difficulties remain, my dear man. Our theory is circumstantial, based on impressions and suspicions and possibilities. After coming here today I have no doubt that the woman in this painting is capable of playing a desperate game for such high stakes. Indeed, the scheme is not so complex as it first appears. The abandoned Mrs Talboys would only have required the help of her father, and somebody with so little scruples as to pass one dead girl off for another. And Lady Audley's new found wealth must have gone some considerable way towards quietening certain suspicious minds. Yet the fact remains that we have no firm proof.' 

'And that is why we have come here, Holmes. To obtain proof?' I asked quietly. 'But how?'

'I believe that Lady Audley is a cold, calculating woman who would stop at nothing. Evil may not be too strong a word for it. However, I do not believe that she is entirely without sentiment. These types of personality rarely are. She will have kept some keepsake or memento of her past life, and I intend to lay my hands on it.' 

'You mean to go through her personal things? It is quite immoral Holmes!'

'More immoral than what she has done to George Talboys?' is all my friend said in reply.

It did not take Holmes long to find what he was looking for, and if I had not known better I might have presumed that he was intimately acquainted with the lady's bedchamber. It took no more than a simple push and tap at the back of her bedside table, and a concealed inner drawer flew open. From the look of triumph on Holmes' face I had expected a more spectacular discovery. All the drawer contained was a child's rattle and a bundle of letters. 'Her handwriting will do,' muttered Holmes seeing my look of disappointment. He slipped the objects into his pocket, and made to depart. 

As we strolled back through the grounds Holmes veered from the path by which we had come. 'Let us leave by the side gate and head back towards the river,' he suggested. 'We may have a friendly face waiting for us there,' he added mysteriously. 

We walked further into the gardens, entering a pretty lime-tree grove that contained a picturesque stone well. As we did so I finally voiced the thought that had been troubling me since our conversation in the inner chamber. 'You suppose George Talboys to have been murdered, don't you Holmes?' I said despondently. I might have been a soldier, but the horror of the case was not lost on me. 'You suppose that she has silenced him so that she may live out her deception until the end of her days.'

'I suppose that the woman is utterly mad,' replied Holmes, not mincing his words. 'And that a woman such as her will try any desperate measure to protect herself.'

His speech was interrupted by a faint rustling in the trees, and the unmistakable sound of a woman's heavy skirt being dragged across the ground.

'Mad? You call me MAD!' came a voice from somewhere close at hand. A screeching, strained cry, more befitting to the cells of Bedlam than an English country house. We turned in terror as Lady Audley emerged onto the pathway in all her splendour – the haunting portrait come to life. Her eyes flashed dangerously and her cheeks flushed a deep blood red. As she stood before us she seemed to grow ten inches. No longer a woman, but a gigantic, raging fiend. Before I had time to steady myself, she had taken me by the shoulders and, with a strength that was almost inhuman, flung me against the side of the well. I teetered on the brink of the abyss, staring up at the creature and searching for signs of mercy. But I saw only the face of a She-devil, crowned with a halo of golden curls. I could muster just one coherent thought in those moments, which I truly believed were my last. That I could not bear to leave Holmes, to have him all alone in this cruel, cold world. As I prepared to meet my maker, my fervent prayers were all for him. 


End file.
